


Joy to You and Me

by ThriftShopYarn



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Enjolras is slightly oblivious, Enjolras wants to be a good boyfriend, Friendship, Grantaire can turn Enjolras into a puddle of goo, M/M, Romance, fluff!, oh god the fluff!, swears and mild sexytimes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThriftShopYarn/pseuds/ThriftShopYarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's birthday is coming up. With some not-at-all-subtle help from his friends, Enjolras learns the gifts you give come back to you tenfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joy to You and Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingvoices/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis. I just enjoy imagining a happier future for my boys! Not beta-ed. Any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Written for the Miserable Holidays gift exchange.

Joy to You and Me

 

It was golden when he woke. 

 

Parchment-toned shades filtered the morning light, bathing the room in soft yellows and ambers that could only exist at this time of day. Grantaire would have appreciated that, if the artist was not currently sprawled half over him, openmouthed and fast asleep. 

 

Normally, Enjolras did not mind having a warm, naked boyfriend for a second comforter. At the moment however, Grantaire was an obstacle, a _tempting_ obstacle, between him and a fully productive day. Progress did not pause for long weekends. 

 

Enjolras nudged Grantaire with one shoulder, making the other man’s chest rise slightly, then drop like a brick. “ ‘Taire,” he groaned. “Up.”

 

“Nngggahh,” Grantaire muttered. 

 

“That’s not a word, ‘Taire,” Enjolras said with patient, yet fond, amusement. “Come on, I need to get up.”

 

“Nooo,” the artist groaned, his eyes still closed. “Comfy...”

 

“ _I_ need to get up. _You_ can keep sleeping.”

 

The arms loosely wrapped around Enjolras’ middle tightened insistently. “Then I would lose the comfy.”

 

“OK, that was a full sentence. You are fooling no one. C’mon, _please_ ,” Enjolras said, with another meaningful nudge. 

 

Grantaire’s blue eyes snapped open, and he propped his chin on Enjolras’ chest. “Make me,” he said, and by god could that man’s expression go from peaceful to wicked as quick as a slip on ice. 

 

“We are not doing this now,” Enjolras said, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling to avoid discovering what the muted morning light was currently doing to Grantaire’s eyes. 

 

“Well, if that’s the way you feel, I can do all the heavy lifting,” said Grantaire comfortably, and, agile as a cat, he slid beneath the sheets. 

 

Enjolras let out a huff of annoyance. He had plans for the day and - _oh fuck was that distracting_. It was suddenly very difficult for him to remember the numerous local non-profits he meant to contact about participating in an upcoming volunteer fair with Grantaire kissing his way down to his navel. And he needed to see if Courfeyrac had called that place...about the...thing... Enjolras made a sudden noise that was some convoluted mix of frustration and pleasure as his boyfriend’s nimble fingers slid under his waistband. 

 

“Not your most articulate, Enj,” came Grantaire’s slightly-muffled voice. 

 

_OK, seriously. Enough._ They could have sex anytime; one morning of abstaining was not going to kill either of them, Enjolras told himself. Firmly. Tenting the sheet up with one arm, Enjolras reached down and fisted Grantaire’s hair, not hard; just enough to get his attention. The artist stopped his explorations instantly and looked at him, with flushed cheeks and bright, sinfully eager eyes that promised everything. 

 

“Grantaire, I have a literal list of things I need to do today.”

 

“Awww, come on. Can I persuade you to amend that?”

 

“I’d love to, but -,” Enjolras’ train of thought was interrupted by his phone ringing on the bedside table. He indicated it with a jerk of his head. “See?”

 

“Ugh.” Grantaire sloppily and laboriously pulled himself out from under the covers and dropped heavily against the headboard.”Tell Utopia you’ll call her back.” Enjolras fumbled for his phone and managed to snag it on the final ring. “It’s Courf.” He hit ‘talk’ and turned all his attention to the phone. “Hey.” 

 

Untangling himself from the sheets, Enjolras continued to carry on his conversation while grabbing items of clothing from around the room with one hand. “You’ve got some contacts for me? Great. I can be at the cafe in 20 minutes.” Enjolras threw up a shade, flooding the small room with blazing light. He glanced back at Grantaire, who was still in bed, squinting now, but watching him with an almost wistful half-smile and eyes that had lost their fervor. Still holding the phone to his ear, Enjolras crossed back to the bed, ruffled Grantaire’s curls and mouthed a quick, “See you tonight,” before heading to the bathroom. 

 

...

Courfeyrac was waiting with pastries in the cafe down the street when Enjolras arrived. His friend wasted no time showing him the list of organizations he had compiled, and then sat, rather fidgety, while Enjolras determined which he wanted to follow up with in person. 

 

_“Ah-hem.”_ Enjolras ignored Courfeyrac’s throat-clearing in favor of gulping more tea and double-checking phone numbers. Such interruptions were frequent when one had a friend who was as subtle as a brick to the head. 

 

“Soooo...,” Enjolras glanced over the top of his paper, eyebrows raised in slight annoyance. Courfeyrac gave him his _don’t mind me, I’m so innocent_ smile, which anyone who knew Courfeyrac understood to mean _secure your valuables and run like hell._ “How’s Grantaire?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“You know, tomorrow’s his birthday.” Enjolras flipped a page. “I’m aware,” he said. “We’re all still getting together at the Musain tomorrow night, right?” There was a pause. “Yeeesss,” Courf answered slowly. “But what are _your_ plans?”

 

“Going to the party,” he said, but in spite of the certainty of his answer, he felt his stomach sink a bit. He forced it back. _No. I am a good boyfriend. I have not fucked this up. I have not fucked this up._ That monologue happened more often than Enjolras cared to admit.  

 

Courf gestured with a blueberry danish, crumbs flying everywhere. “And?”

 

“And?”

 

“Aren’t you going to do anything, you know, _special_?”

 

“I don’t know. I’ll get him something, I guess.”

 

“And there’s the problem!” exclaimed Courf, slamming the rest of his danish onto the table in triumph. 

 

“What problem?”

 

“You suck at gift-giving, my friend. That is what we are here to discuss today.” Enjolras glanced at the table in confusion. “We came here to discuss...”

 

“Suuuuuccck.”

 

“Really? Was that necessary?”

 

“E, remember my last birthday?” Courf asked, ignoring the question. Enjolras nodded. “And what did you get me?” He sat back and crossed his arms, waiting. Enjolras struggled to think back. “Well, you kept saying how cold you always were, so...”

 

“You got me socks, Enjolras. A twelve-pack of thick, white, old -person socks. Now, I’ve been your friend since preschool, but that night you were damn lucky I didn’t decide to ralph all over your shoes. And I’m only one of your closest friends in the entire world. So.” Courf suddenly leaned forward, as stern and no-nonsense as a judge. Enjolras found himself backing away under the force of such sudden intimidation. “What are you going give the man who adores you?”

 

“Well, I...uh...,” and to his horror, he, Enjolras, who prided himself on his ability to craft moving speeches and improvise a precise point with the barest of prompts, found himself stammering. 

 

And Courf was still looking at him, as a parent looks at a child who is far too old to have spilled milk all over himself. 

 

“He likes art. And music. And...T-shirts that say intelligently funny things,” said Enjolras, in a determined sort of voice. “So I thought that later today I would just go to a store that deals in...those things,” he finished lamely. 

 

There was a moment of silence. The sort of silence found on a frozen lake, right before the ice begins to crack. 

 

“ ‘Ferre was right. You’re fucked,” Courf muttered sadly to the remains of his danish. Enjolras, recognizing defeat for once, dropped his head into his hands. “I am, aren’t I?” he groaned. Then he peaked out at his friend. “Wait, this is something the two of you discuss?”

 

Courf nodded. “Regularly.” Enjolras groaned again, then dropped his head into crossed arms. 

 

“Wait, wait. Maybe I was a little harsh. This isn’t as bad as it could be.”

 

“How?” Enjolras asked the tabletop. 

 

“You know what he likes. Just narrow it down a bit. What does he _want_?”

 

Enjolras sat up and thought hard. “Music,” he said, beginning to tick off items on his fingers. “Art. T-shirts.”

 

“You,” Courf deadpanned, raising an eyebrow suggestively. 

 

“Me,” Enjolras repeated absently. “...wait.”

 

“You’ve got something?” Courfeyrac asked with barely hidden surprise. 

 

“I think so,” Enjolras replied. He shuffled his papers, then passed half of them to his friend. “Could you...?”

 

“Take care of these for you? Of course.” Courf gave him an appraising look, one that was both impressed and worried at the same time. “You’ve really got a plan then?”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras said firmly. “I know what he wants.”

 

...

 

His conviction had been triggered by a memory, which he declined to share with his curious and well-meaning friend. He had remembered Grantaire in his bed that morning, and the smile he had been wearing in the soft yellow glow. Enjolras had seen that smile before. He caught it sometimes during meetings at the Musain, but it was most common at home, when he got a phone call during dinner or talked about another weekend rally. It was quite a sweet smile Grantaire wore at those times, patient, accepting, a little bit proud, but slightly sad. It was only when Enjolras was sitting under Courfeyrac’s scrutiny that he recognized this smile as the one Grantaire always wore when he remembered that Enjolras was not entirely his. 

 

...

 

Enjolras stared at the gift bag, complete with matching tissue paper, that was sitting on the kitchen table in front of him as though it would explode any second. It was the only thing that was keeping him from staring anxiously at the door. It had not been his idea to wrap the thing, but he had stopped at Cosette’s before he had gone home. 

 

Courfeyrac had suggested he talk with her; Enjolras had gotten the sense his friend believed any romantic plan of his should be run by at least two people for safety’s sake. Enjolras had initially been annoyed, but found himself feeling a sense of pride when Cosette approved of his plan. But then she started asking about all of these little details, like presentation, that he had not even thought of. When it had become clear that he had no plan beyond “present object,” the normally sweet-tempered girl had blown a metaphorical gasket. “Fuck that shit,” she had spat. “You barbarian. God, just...give it here, I’ll take care of it.” She had then disappeared into her room and, like the magician she was, returned with the gift perfectly packaged in less than five minutes.  And after all that, Grantaire was late. 

 

Enjolras was on the verge of getting up to proofread his latest paper, or rearrange his closet, or _cook something_ because by god, anything was better than just sitting there tapping a hole through the floor with his foot. But it was right then, to his utter relief, that Grantaire flew through the door in his usual haphazard way. 

 

“Hey! I ended up staying after class to work on my final project. I grabbed a sandwich on the way home, but I can always go for...um, what’s that?”

 

Relieved that Grantaire had initiated the conversation, Enjolras hastily got to his feet (almost knocking over a chair in the process), and pushed the bag towards his paint-splattered boyfriend. 

 

Grantaire took the bag with a slightly indulgent smile. “Thanks, Enj. But you know my birthday’s tomorrow, right?”

 

Abruptly realizing Grantaire thought he was that neglectful, Enjolras rapidly pressed forward. “Yes! I mean...of course it’s tomorrow, I just wanted to give it to you tonight.” _So please just open it and stop looking at me like the answers to the universe are written on my forehead,_ he prayed silently. 

 

“Okay,” Grantaire said, finally, Enjolras uncomfortably noted, allowing himself to look excited. “Um...a phone. You got me a phone? Wait...” Enjolras found himself holding his breath as Grantaire examined the iphone more closely. “Is this your phone?”

 

“Yes,” he answered, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Cosette’s tissue paper would clearly only get him so far. “Um, well, do you notice anything...er.. _different_ about it?”

 

“Well...”Grantaire turned the phone over in his hands. “It’s turned off.” Suddenly he started and his eyes flew to meet Enjolras’. “It’s. Turned. Off.”

 

“Yeah,” he said softly, feeling a smile tug at his lips. 

 

“Enjolras,” the artist asked carefully. “What’s going on?”

 

“This evening is yours. We can do whatever you want. No interruptions. Nowhere else for either of us to be.” The way Grantaire was looking at him, as though he had encountered a puzzle he had not expected, did not help Enjolras’ fledging certainty. “I mean...you didn’t have plans or anything, did you...?” He was unable to finish because Grantaire crossed the room in two strides, seized his face, and silenced him with a kiss that burned with a kind of desperate gratefulness. _“We can do...,”_ Grantaire said between pulsing breaths that Enjolras felt all over his face and neck, _“...anything I want?"_  The blue eyes searching his face widened slightly. 

 

“Yes, anything,” Enjolras said, out of breath himself. His body began to tingle, from his very fingertips to the backs of his knees. He was lightheaded and hot from the kiss, and for the first time he wondered, a little ecstatically, whether he was going to regret this. 

 

“I want,” Grantaire breathed, his forehead pressed tightly against Enjolras’, “to sit on this couch and watch a movie with you.” 

 

It took Enjolras a moment to comprehend what Grantaire had said, because Grantaire had this bedroom voice he occasionally slipped into that made each syllable sound like embers tumbling from his mouth; hot, smoky, and drawling. Only he didn’t use it in the bedroom, he used it everywhere else. One time Grantaire had asked him to put away some blueberries he had picked up at the market, and Enjolras had gone so weak in the knees he had bruises on his shins the next day from banging them into the kitchen cupboards. Enjolras had yet to figure out if his boyfriend did this on purpose. 

 

But when Enjolras’ brain had calmed down he stopped himself from voicing his surprise, because in the brief silence that followed his request Grantaire’s face had taken on a look he wore too often, one which clearly said, _Have I made a mistake?_ So Enjolras simply smiled and said, “We’ll be needing popcorn, right?”  Grantaire’s grin could have split his face in two. He swiftly kissed Enjolras again, then bounded off to the bedroom to change clothes. 

 

Enjolras busied himself about the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?” he called as he reached into the fridge. 

 

“Whatever you’re having.” Grantaire appeared in the doorway, pulling a worn T-shirt over his head. 

 

“You sure?” Enjolras asked carefully. Grantaire’s drinking was never an easy thing to discuss, but Enjolras didn’t think he had it in him to deny his boyfriend anything on a night that made him smile so, and give kisses Enjolras knew he would be carrying in his mouth for days. 

 

Quirking his lips in a way that made Enjolras’ heart forget its rhythm, Grantaire crossed the narrow space and had him against the fridge with the slightest press of his fingers. The artist slid one callused hand into Enjolras’ hair and leaned in close. “A night like this, where I get you all to myself for _hours_?” he breathed, and Enjolras was acutely aware of how the tip of his nose trailed against his cheek. “You bet your lovely ass I’m going to be stone cold sober.” He pulled away with a smile that was disarmingly sweet, then drifted into the living room. Enjolras gave himself a moment to ponder how he could still feel the warm press of Grantaire’s fingers against his chest, before reaching back into the fridge for soda. 

 

Once the popcorn had been drenched in butter, Enjolras carried everything into the living room to find Grantaire on the floor, inserting a DVD. By twisting his head, Enjolras just managed to read the title, _The Big Chill_ , before the tray slid closed.

 

“I’ve been wanting to watch this with you _forever_!” Grantaire said, his sultriness from just a moment before replaced by such endearing eagerness that Enjolras could not help smiling wildly in return. Grantaire flung himself on the couch, sprawled in a corner, and opened his arms. 

 

Tentatively, Enjolras laid himself on top of his boyfriend, holding himself rather stiffly because he was just not sure what to do. This was the first time in his memory that the two of them had simply shared each other’s company. He wasn’t on his laptop or his phone. Neither of them were reading. There was no tugging at clothes or grasping  damp skin. For once, their hands were not full of work, or art, or each other. As Enjolras became aware of the gentle press of Grantaire’s arm around his waist, of how he could feel every breath and heartbeat, his uncertainty was replaced with pleasant anticipation. He could feel his anxiety melting away as Grantaire pressed play. 

 

It was all..oddly wonderful. As the movie played Grantaire eagerly watched him react to the funny bits and stroked along his ribs during the more sentimental parts. He kissed his head at sweet, random moments, and then pressed slightly more promising ones into his neck. Enjolras spent an embarrassingly long time trying to find a name for what was happening, but when Grantaire caught his hand and kissed butter off his fingers in a way that made him jump, and then melt inside, he stopped trying. With no distractions holding him back Enjolras found himself reciprocating. He met Grantaire’s eyes as he laughed, watched his lips as he mouthed along with well-loved lines. He traced patterns over the artist’s hands, noticing each dip and callus for the first time. He returned each kiss, and then some. 

 

When the movie was over, they were both half asleep, Enjolras still laying warm and comfortable on top of Grantaire. His boyfriend muttered a sleepy thank you that went straight to Enjolras’ heart and he settled himself a bit more, rubbing his cheek against Grantaire’s T-shirt and tightening his arms slightly. 

 

_No. Thank you._  

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (Miserable) Holidays, fallingvoices! I hope you enjoy this! I really wanted to give you something you would like that still fell within my comfort zone. (I really appreciate you giving me so much freedom in your prompts!)


End file.
